


The Battle of the Beds

by sian22



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beregond to the rescue, Challenge-Garden, Emyn Arnen, Faramir and Eowyn's family, Gen, Humour, Sibling Rivalry, Teitho Fanfiction Contest, adjusting to post Ranging life, sleepy summer day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/sian22
Summary: An epic battle is waged in Ithilien. Can her brave Prince save the day? And will Beregond find the Princess before trouble strikes?Featuring Eowyn and Faramir's three children, flowers and honeycakesIf only all battles ended this way.





	The Battle of the Beds

**Author's Note:**

> This features Eowyn and Faramir's family at Emyn Arnen in the F.A. and is a wonderful result of a fabulous New York getaway by the Gardeners of Ithilien. Thanks to Carawyn and Gwynnyd for a hilarious discussion in the sunshine of Central Park, where we saw the original battling beds. And thank you so very much to the voters at Teitho-this was first in the challenge 'Garden'

"Ada, there's a battle!!"

The urgently shouted words slice, quick and vicious as a blade, through the soft somnolence of my sleepy brain. Orcs?! In Emyn Arnen?! I jolt upright and ignore, without so much as a twinge of guilt, the splayed forgotten book that slides unceremoniously to the floor, standing, heart pounding wildly, in my all too quiet study.

What battle? Where? An ear cocks to discern the direction of the threat and then it comes again. A high and childish cry. "Ada, hurry! Please!"

Fin! Finduilas! That is my daughter's call and I am certain it comes from somewhere near Éowyn 's ever-expanding gardens: the rear ones that roll downward to the stream and the fence of Ithilien's deep green forest. Emyn Arnen is patroled and has seen no threat since Elboron was in swaddling clothes, and yet… I could not say there would never be so again.

I am too long tutored in the Music of the One for that.

Reflexes honed by years of rude awakenings take me across the short expanse of carpet to my sword. Four holes, no more, and the prong slides home; the scabbard swings empty at my hip, as I, naked blade in hand, shoulder the door aside and pelt full tilt down the hall.

Where are Elboron and Theo?! Where is Éowyn?! And Beregond?!

A clawing, jangling need to go straight to the children and Éowyn wars with our long pre-planned defense. I must alert the Guard, have someone tell Nera what is happening- our chatelaine will lead the housefolk to safety below stone-and if possible send word to Mablung the village. How many are they? Will the White Company nearest to hand be enough, or should I pull in my old friend's men? Surely if 'twere a bigger force the scouts would have picked it up?

Heart in mouth, I skid to a stop before the first person that I see. Merlyn, the youngest housemaid, wide-eyed and with a basket of warm sun-bleached linens on her hip.

"Mer, have Nera get everyone into the cellar! Quickly! Bolt the door. There are Orcs outside!"

"My lord!" The washing basket drops with a heavy thud, smallclothes flying like errant geese. For a second I think that she might faint but the brave girl gathers her wits and her skirts to herself, bobs a reflexive curtsy and vanishes in a swirl of starched grey and white.

A second later I am on the hardpack of the forecourt, scanning the garden for threat and help at once. The sun is westering, casting a rosy glow over the smudged grey of the nearer hills, but not, blessedly, a thicket of looming spears.

_Blast_. How could I have been such a fool to doze half the afternoon? A dozen campaigns with my liege may have moped most of the Orc nests out of Mordor and Ithilien, lent our people a certain equanimity, but this had always been a risk. Practised for. Planned out. But never realized 'til now.

"Eldrin, where is Captain Beregond?!"

The stable lad by the mounting block stands mouth open and catching flies—he has never have seen his Prince so openly armed before, for I spoke truly to my White Lady when I said I preferred my steel in writing instruments.

I shake his arm gently until a few stammered words fall out.

"With Bergil at the gate."

That close? Tulkas, we are in luck! "Run! Now! Tell them there is a threat, and go on to Captain Mablung at the barracks. He will know what to do."

The boy nods mutely, has the sense to scramble up onto the gelding's back and kick him to a gallop. They vanish in a clatter of hooves on cobblestone and in their wake I run, calling to the stable hands to arm themselves. "Finduilas, hold on!" I yell, far from certain it will carry very far and far from relieved to hear no hooting grunts or wild war cries.

My tone and abrupt loud drumming of sword hilt against stable door rouses the grooms and gardeners.

"My Lord?!" Daerod with his leathery brown wrinkles and jagged scar where an eye once saw, is first to gain the door. "Summat's wrong?"

"Yes! _Yrch_! Grab a weapon and follow me!"

Across the courtyard onto the grass lawns I fly, nerves and high summer heat sending sweat trickling down my nape, certain I will be followed quickly for the old veteran hates the Filth with more reason than have many. My haste takes me past the Mallorn and the waterlily ponds, past Theo's makeshift veterinary and Éowyn's drying sheds.

From the sound through the study window they must be out in the farthest garden beds, the new ones tucked against the forest's eaves.

My focus narrows to a point and skids to a stop. "Where is Fin?!"

Théomund, my youngest, stands on the edge of an ornamental bed with two fistfuls of cheery yellow yarrow and dirty smudges on his knees. He is quite mercifully unharmed but also worryingly unalarmed.

"Ada, I'm winning!" he trumpets, brandishing the flowers like a prize.

"Théo, quick where are they? Where are Fin and Mama?"

At the urgency of my words, Elboron's dark head pops up from a patch of green foxtail. He has been lounging on his stomach, blowing a goose-honking, squawking tune with a blade of grass to make a high counterpoint to the drone of lazy bees. He points somewhat acrobatically with a toe. "Behind."

"Come now and help Theo back to the house!" I order to my startled boy and turn at once, nearly colliding with my frowning wife.

"Faramir, what is it?" Éowyn stands hands on hips, expression shocked, her only weapon a set of green-smeared pruning shears. At the sight of my sword and the motley crew of press-ganged soldiers bringing up the rear she instantly comes on alert. "What has happened?"

"Where is Finduilas?" I ask, admirably calmly considering the circumstance. The immediate area looks only very slightly trampled-mercifully it could not be a troop but need not be so to do much ill. "Where are the Orcs? Did you not see them? She called for help!"

"Orcs!?" Éowyn instantly steps between her boys and the forest's edge. "She was here not long ago!" Her eyes are wide and worried but determined. "Faramir, I heard nothing untoward."

"Do not worry, my love. We will find her!"

There is a rush of steel-smelling air and instantly I feel easier. Beregond is at my shoulder, sword out and three Guards just behind. The Captain of the White Company, dark eyes narrowed, raises a hand to scan the turned fields that slope away, then nods. "My Lord. Bergil and Ker have gone widdershins around, will flank them down past the beck. Torec and Ingold are gaining height, will cut them off to the east."

"Good. Take half the men and spread out at the verge. Daerod, escort the children to the house."

"Aye, my Lord."

I know enough to not suggest Éowyn actually leave but am unprepared for another source of rebellion.

As Daerod reaches for his hand, Théomund, slight and unsteady and therefore made nervous by so many hulking men with open steel, pulls away; clasps my leg and insistently tugs at my hand. "Ada!"

"Not now Théomund." I reluctantly pry chubby dirty fingers off my own, push him away gently as I can and take up the call again. "Finduilas! Finduilas!"

There is no answer. My heart feels as if it could beat right out of my chest. The thought of Finduilas, fine-boned and lithe as her namesake, in an Orc's great paws almost makes me ill.

Beregond and two tall sergeants are just about to plunge into our prized thicket of gnarled crab-apple trees, a remnant of Ithilien's dishevelled dryad past, when a dark head bursts out of the red and green.

"Here I am Ada!"

"Finduilas!" Thank the _Valar _it is her! And whole. My daughter's braids are mussed, her breeches are torn, but she is obviously quite well.

And obviously quite puzzled. Her elfin features screw up in a frown. "Hello Beregond. What are you doing here?"

"Hunting the Filth," he responds, far more mildly than I think I could. It takes every ounce of my honed iron self control to not scoop her up right then. "I might ask the same of you, young mistress," notes Beregond, signalling to Leart to move on ahead. "Are they very far?"

"Are who?"

"The Orcs."

"What Orcs?"

Does my fierce, four foot high doppleganger have to argue _everything_? Anxiety and impatience make me sharper than I want. "The ones you called about! Leave be and come here at once. Back to the house with your brothers!"

"But Ada!"

_Orome's_ horns but she can be stubborn when she wants. Finduilas stamps her foot, yanks her arm away from Daerod's reaching grasp to stare up with an almost comically mulish expression on her face.

"Finduilas, no arguing!"

"But I didn't call for that!"

The garden and forest magically fall suddenly and monumentally quiet.

"You did…. you didn't?!"

My Captain has the great good sense to not meet my gaze as I stare appalled at them across the plants. My wife has no such qualms.

"You said there was a battle."

"Yes," I allow, a little dazedly.

Finduilas draws breath to be precise. "You are right, Ada, but not _that_ type of battle." She turns toward the sweet scented flower bed of yellow and pink that had captured Théo before. "You see, we each planted half and half, but now," her little hand sweeps wide in a grand dramatic arc, "they are fighting with each other. Theo's snapdragons and my yarrow. Mine are winning."

I stare down, speechless, at the bed. 'Twas exactly as she said. A once presumably straight boundary is now irregular. A dozen or so yarrow have decamped across the battle line to squat on the other side. Their leader is a particularly fine specimen—all sharp spicy grey green leaves and plump seed head.

My youngest son breaks away to toddle over and snap it off. "Not winning!"

Elboron, blessedly, has the presence of mind to keep his sister from joining in. He hurriedly grabs for her hand and the nearest pigtail. As he neatly evades a kick he looks back to me. "Ada, you…"

_Fell asleep_.

_Gods_. I'd fallen into a pleasant post-luncheon haze (rare, I assure you) and misunderstood her call for aid.

If not the tone. The piercing wail of need was true—for a young princess who feels winning to be her due.

Éowyn draws near and takes my arm. Her mouth quirks and her sun-kissed freckles wink as she brushes the sleep-creases in my tunic from off my back. "You roused the house?"

I nod, mutely, for my tongue is suddenly cemented by embarrassment.

Never let it be said that the Lady of Ithilien is not the most practical soul in residence. "I'd best let Nera know they are released. And find sustenance for this lot. They've been weeding squabble free for hours."

"Ada, did I do something wrong?"

Excitement is quickly giving way to worry. Finduilas, having shrugged off her elder brother, is biting her lip; her mist grey eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Oh _Valar_. Most days I would say of our brood Elboron is most like to his namesake (with a good measure of his Uncle-King) but at times like this- highs and lows and a good deal of exaggeration thrown in— my daughter is my beloved brother as he was at ten. Exuberant and volatile. I hasten to allay her fear.

"Nay Sugar plum. You have done no wrong. I misunderstood. But perhaps, if you could, next time, explain the _nature_ of the battle."

Beregond and I share a look as meaningful as it is brief. Men who have spent decades cat-napping below these trees, trained to come instantly to fighting stance when roused, do not give up their habits easily.

Peace does not train it out of you. It merely makes the rest between more easy.

Cheeks flaming, I belatedly let the tip of my sword rest in the loam whilst Théomund, chirping happily, goes back to strafing through the yellow foot soldiers. Finduilas is still not quite convinced. She stands, trembling a little, poised to dissolve spectacularly until Beregond pulls off his helm and chuckles.

"Princess, if only I could say every battle ended so. With tea and honeycakes for the victors and vanquished both. And pretty flowers sitting easily below the sun." Blessed Beregond. Father to three girls and two boys. And now a grandfather. He knows a thing or two about younglings. I smile wanly as he crouches down beside her, chucks her underneath her pointed chin. "Honestly, lass. No harm done. No harm at all." With a clank, he rises, tilts his head back to the house. "My Lord, shall I call back the others and explain to Captain Mablung it is a false alarm? Tell him he can stand down?"

Mablung! I groan and hide head in hand, appalled by my inattention. In the confusion I'd completely forgotten we'd raised the village. There is now no chance we would head them off. They'll be nigh the outer gates, racing double time.

Of course, this is the news that perks Finduilas up. Our grizzled-haired, sarcastic Ranger Captain is my daughter's favourite male. Outside me of course.

"Mablung is coming here?!"

"Yes."

"Can he stay to tea?"

None of us can stop the laughter that bubbles up.

"Of course, sweetheart."

At last I give in to the need to have her in my arms. I sheath my sword, cross the short distance between us to kneel at her feet and envelop her in a swift sure hug. Relief pours down my veins. She is well and there is no danger and I am lucky beyond all imagining.

"Fin what were you doing in the forest?" I ask, giving voice to the question that is on all our lips; smoothing down a few of the wild shining locks before I let her go.

"Searching for the snips I dropped," she pouts.

_Ah. _That was what it was. A more efficient tool for scything Theo's pink intruders. I grin wryly, noting that while our backs were turned all the yarrow have been chased back behind their line. A single snapdragon stands triumphantly as a lone pink spire amidst a sea of gold.

I am suddenly unable to get the image of Aragorn roaring with laughter out of my head.

My monthly report on Ithilien's Companies is due to the King the day after next. Almost instantly the official lines materialize:

'_The Battle of the Beds shall be destined to be remembered in Gondor's history books as most heroic epic battles are: immortalized in song and story, and the memories of its honoured veterans who will sit misty eyed and at peace by the hearth_.'

Yes, it had been a battle. A rather irregular skirmish won by the tow-headed Théomund, Prince of Ithilien, and celebrated with tea and honeycakes (and little iced cakes if we were lucky) for the intrepid soldiers of Ithilien's Second company, our household guard and Emyn Arnen's alarmed goodfolk.

Cook will have a fit.

It will be entirely worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are also due to Gwynnyd, Haarjaot and Carawyn for their kudos and critters.. and especially to
> 
> Lialathuverill for her hilarious take on Shakespeare's Henry V:
> 
> And gentlemen in Gondor now a-bed  
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,  
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
That fought with us the Battle of the Beds.


End file.
